Earl Grey & Roses
by Diana Huntress Pines
Summary: Based on a prompt I found. "At first he thought the spell didn't work. He didn't realize that it would take her 3 years to dig herself out." Was originally supposed to be happy fluff but that plan derailed pretty quick. Major character death, FrUk, angst, pre-relationship.
1. Prolouge

**Prologue**

"Hello, you old frog."

There was despair in England's voice as he stood at the graveside, staring at the gold inlaid stone. A stone that taunted him. His hands shook, knuckles white from clutching a tattered book too tightly.

His spellbook.

France's grave lay on top of the hill, the light of the full moon pooling at his feet. In the distance, lights from the Eiffel Tower twinkled in the night. The world was silent. The sky was clear. It was perfect for what England was about to do. He knelt down in the grass, ignoring the dampness of the ground. Resting the thick tome on his knees, England reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a long, curved blade. Rubies and emeralds were embedded in the hilt and glittered in the moonlight.

He rolled up his sleeve. Pressed the blade to his forearm. Ignored the pain as crimson blood welled.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Three drops of blood. A necessary sacrifice, in England's opinion.

He quickly bound the small wound in a strip of cloth he had brought. Fumbling the aged pages of his spellbook, he soon found the spell he was looking for. And he began to recite.

The old language was familiar on his tongue as wisps of green light rose from the ground. After centuries of practice, his pronunciation was perfect. The light grew brighter and brighter, to the point where England was surprised that no one had come to investigate. But then, even if someone did come, he wouldn't care. He only had one thing on his mind at this point.

Getting his beloved back.

The last whisper of Latin escaped his lips, and the light faded, leaving nothing but the silence from before. But now something was different. The silence wasn't dead, and the air hummed with energy. And England was hopeful.

So he waited.

He waited until his blood was caked and dried on the knife. He waited until the last of the magical energy was gone, seeped into the earth. He waited until shards of morning light shone over Paris. He waited until his hope had faded. His face had twisted into an impatient scowl.

"I knew it." He muttered, standing and ignoring the grass stains now adjourning his knees. "I BLOODY KNEW IT!" England howled to the world, all the anger and guilt and grief he had kept bottled up finally emerged as he hurled the book as hard as he could. It cracked against a tree, opening to the spell he had used as it fell to the ground. A mockery. A mockery of him.

"I know it didn't work," England growled at the book. He picked it up roughly, along with the knife, and stormed back to his hotel room. Chucking the two on his bed, he ran a hand down his face. "It was too bloody good to be true…"

England chose then to treat his wound, washing it clean and disinfecting it with alcohol, letting the pain wash away old memories. Memories that were too painful to remember.

He took a swig of the alcohol as hot tears slid down his face.

England thought the spell didn't work.

He didn't realize that it would take his love three years to dig himself out.


	2. Chapter 1

3 Years Later

The tea had gone cold long before.

England sat alone at his dining table, staring into the murky liquid. The life in his eyes was gone, replaced with nothing but emptiness. They had been like that for the past 3 years. Silence filled his household.

Isolation felt good. No, not good, appropriate. Needed. England hadn't wanted to interact with anyone since that day, so long ago yet so recent. The other nations had kept their distance, leaving him to his grief and pain. His eyes drifted to the window that overlooked his garden. His roses. Roses that he poured his heart into, roses with work that he would dive into to forget, roses with thorns to chase away the pain of missing _him_. The sun shined on the morning dew, causing the flowers to glisten in the light. _Perhaps I should get to work on the day's work_ , he thought, and sighed, setting his cup down with a small _clink_. England winced slightly at the sound; he just wanted silence. Pure, blissful silence.

A silence that he wasn't going to get, given the heavy knocking at the front door.

He stayed where he was, not making a sound. The person will leave, eventually, leaving him to his peace and quiet. However, the knocker had other plans. After several excruciatingly long minutes of insensitive knocking, it was clear that the person knew he was home. England scowled.

"Go away, wanker!" He yelled, voice croaky from misuse. The knocking paused, and he sighed in relief. Peace and quiet at-

"...Angleterre?"

Cold tea spilt in England's rush to the door, his heart thumping and eyes wide in disbelief. He yanked the door open, nearly pulling it off its hinges as it flew open. He beheld the dishevelled man before him.

France had definitely looked better. His blond hair was stained brown, his eyes were bloodshot and his bones poked prom beneath his skin. The suit he was buried in was worn and tattered, his nails cracked and caked in dirt.

"I'm dreaming," England muttered. France offered him a weak smile and his knees shook. He was in shock. "I'm bloody dreaming."

It took him a moment to realize the France was hunched over and shivering slightly, something that brought England back to reality. Without another word from either of them, England stepped aside for France and ushered him into the house. The situation seemed above words. Neither could speak as he turned the shower on, steam quickly clouding the mirror. The world was blurry as he heard the soft plink of tears on the tiled floor, and then France was holding him, his touch gentle and familiar. Loving.

England was quick to pull away, the door swinging shut behind him as he went to clean up the mess in his dining room. They had shared many embraces like that before…..before the accident, but never anything more. And now, if France was really here, it never could be anything more.

Half an hour later saw them on opposite sides of the couch in front of the fireplace, France in clean clothes - England's clean clothes, for that matter - neither keen to speak. England's tears had dried along with the spilt earl grey tea.

"Angleterre." France was the first to break the chafing silence. England's head snapped up, gaze accusing.

"You died." He said flatly. France flinched at the harsh tone.

"I am aware." He replied softly, not meeting England's gaze. "Forgive me, but...how long ago?"

"...Three years." England remained tense, but something in his gaze softened. "You don't remember." It wasn't accusatory, but the tone was still harsh. France shook his head.

"I do not."

"Do you-"

"Non."

Both knew what was implied. Silence filled the room once more. Both knew what came next. England hesitated.

"There was a burning building." He said at last. "Back in Paris. A child….she was left inside. You went in to save her." England swallowed thickly. "Neither of you made it out." Looking up, he saw the remnants of burns creeping up France's neck. Faint scars mutilating beautiful skin. France nodded slowly.

"Not how I thought I would go." He admitted, giving a soft smile to ease the tension. England's lips thinned. "How did I….How am I back? Why am I alive now?" Pleading showed in his eyes.

England didn't answer.

He couldn't answer.

"How did you get across The English Channel?" He asked, genuinely curious. Surely no one in their right mind would let France aboard any kind of plane or ferry in the state he was in.

"Scotland found me," France said, trying to make himself smaller. He knew of the legendary rivalry between the Kirkland brothers. "He was passing through when he spotted me, and dropped me off near here so that I could find you." England felt his cheeks heat up a bit at that and he covered his face with his hands. "Why did you move out?" He dragged his hand down his face in a sign of exasperation at his brothers.

"I had to get away from my brothers." He explained. He didn't elaborate. "So I moved here." Time to change the subject. "There's a world meeting in a few days. "I'm sure everyone will be _overjoyed_ to see you again." The word held venomous sarcasm as he stood to leave.

"Wouldn't they want to know?" France asked. England paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame.

"They'll just have to accept it." He said flatly. He didn't wait for France's reply as he walked out back to his beloved roses.


	3. Chapter 2

As per usual, the meeting was is utter chaos.

No one paid England any heed as he walked into the room, and he returned the favour, but he noticed violet eyes flick to the man behind him.

Canada looked like Christmas had come early, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. He flitted over to them, eyes lit up and clutching Kumajiro.

"Papa! Oh, my...you're here!" His voice was soft, as usual, but the excitement and happiness were evident. France smiled and hugged Canada tightly, as if letting go would mean disappearing for good, murmuring to him in quiet French. England, having woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and not wanting to join the swarm he knew was to come, ignored the pair and sat in his seat. Tears fell from both Canada and France, and it didn't take long for America, in the middle of his lecture about heroes to both Denmark and Prussia, to realize his brother was crying. His eyes widened at the sight of France.

"Holy shit, France!" He yelled, vaulting the table to get to him and very nearly kicking Poland in the face. Heads turned. Gasps arose.

"No way, aru."

"Dude, this is amazing!"

"And awesome! Like me!"

"Ve~ It's good you're back."

"Bastardo! You had the tomato-bastard worried!"

"Aww~ Lovi! That's so sweet!"

"Shut _up_ , bastard!"

"I-it's nice...that you're back, that is…"

"This is, like, totally the best."

"We should celebrate - with vodka, of course!"

England rolled his eyes as Germany cleared his throat diplomatically, the sound going unnoticed. He tried again, louder this time, and when that elicited no response from the rejoicing crowd he sighed. England folded his arms and leant back in his chair.

"Oi! Wankers! Let's get on with this, shall we?" That got everyone's attention. Well, it was more his pissed tone than anything. The other nations took their respective seats, shooting glances at France. Who chose to sit next to England. Damn him.

The rest of the meeting progressed with little progress. The appearance of France caused whispers and no one could focus, and the topics drifted from Global Warming to international trade deals to Antarctic exploration. A few appeared to be concerned about the apparent lack of conflict between England and France. The former avoided all eye contact with just about everyone, while the latter simply observed, keen on catching up. Throughout the meeting, England could feel Norwegian eyes on him and suppressed a growl of frustration. Of _course_ Norway would guess.

England was tired. He was blinking more than necessary and was fighting the urge to yawn. This tiredness was most likely the cause for his grumpiness, but then he did wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning. Before France had shown up on his doorstep he had simply assumed that he needed more sleep, but now? He shook his head and smiled knowingly to himself.

His spell had worked.

* * *

France spent the next few days at England's house, catching up on the three years of paperwork, events and political decisions that had built up. He had surprised his boss when he came to work after going to England, but luckily they had chalked it up to the conclusion that nations just couldn't die and that France had simply taken an extended vacation. It was one of those days where he was thankful for human naivety.

He mostly worked at a small table in the corner of England's garden while the latter tended to his plants. Neither talked and they spent their time in silence, though England watched France out of the corner of his eye.

Dinner was also silent. While England could bake well, meals were still inedible. France still stomached them, however. England wondered why.

Just as he wondered why he had come to him first, without freshening up. He knew Scotland would have allowed him to use the Kirkland house's shower, or better yet why didn't France just go to his own home first? It's like France had just naturally gravitated to him. The thought made England's heart flutter. From over the roses, he watched France scribble something down. Why was he still here? Not that he minded his company, but maybe he should send him away. _But I can't._ He doesn't want France to see him like this. _I don't want to let him go._

The thought made him snip a fully bloomed bud. He swore. He felt eyes on him as he said nothing more though he cursed his mind for thinking such things, even though he knew they were true.

 _Fine,_ he thought, _he can stay. He won't find out, anyway._

England wasn't so sure.


	4. Chapter 3

A week passed.

England allowed France to remain at his house to continue catching up and work on paperwork. France seemed to return to his usual spirits, harmlessly flirting with England at every opportunity. The Frenchman even went so far as to offer him a rose from his own garden. England just about threw a fit at that.

Pretty soon England returned to normal, too, the shock finally wearing off. A few passerby's related them to a bickering elderly couple. They weren't wrong.

At one point France suggested that England should stay at the corners house.

"No," England said flatly, turning a page in his newspaper.

"But Angleterre~" France pouted, leaning across the table so his face was in front of the paper. "It will be easier to catch up on paperwork if I'm there!"

"Then go," England replied, giving him the cold shoulder, as per usual. "But I'm staying here."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why will you not come to France with me?" England stiffened. Memories ran through his mind like a river in a storm. Shouting. The groaning of wood about to give. The heat of flame.

"It's too painful." He replied with honesty. "I...I just can't." France nodded and stood.

"Very well, I will go myself."

England's head shot up. Panic clouded his mind. He stared at France's back as the flirt made his way out the back door and to the garden gate, his fingers brushing, almost lovingly, over the roses. He was leaving.

"Wait!" England cried out before he could stop himself, and France turned to face him in surprise as he caught up. He grabbed his wrist even though the other nation had stopped moving. France stared down at England with wide eyes.

"Don't." England pleaded, eyes equally wide. "Stay."

France smiled.

"Of course, mon cher."

England's heart fluttered. He dropped his hand as if he were burnt.

"Don't turn this into something it's not, you frog." he huffed indignantly, colour creeping into his cheeks. Turning back, he heard France reply sadly.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

England felt weaker every day.

The deterioration had started slow, about 2 years before. It had sped up considerably once France had shown up on his doorstep, haggard and in bad need of a shower.

He was happy the spell had worked. He wasn't happy about the consequences. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with France before...well. He didn't want to think about that.

Being so tired made him unusually cranky - even more than usual. He was pale and quickly losing weight. France seemed to be catching on, fussing over England far more than necessary. Though a slip of the tongue revealed that France simply thought him overworked. Thanks to his somewhat manipulative and flirty ways, the Frenchman had managed to get his boss to allow England a holiday. That was fine with him. It gave him more time to spend with his garden, and by extension, France. Well, that's what he had hoped. France absolutely forbade him to do anything, including one of the few things that calmed him. And yet he insisted.

England had expected the frog to butcher his garden. He was pleasantly surprised.

"You missed a spot." France looked up at England, confusion wavering on his face. England rolled his eyes and pointed.

"There. How can you expect me to keep my roses trim if you let unruly twigs sprout." France laughed, understanding, and he scowled.

"Angleterre, if you do not let something grow, how can you expect it to flourish?"

England had a feeling he meant more than the flowers.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N - First chapter in a long while! Sorry about the hiatus, guys. Exams were a thing and I didn't have the brain power after that, then I went on a fucking long holiday. Wrote everything up though, so I now have no excuse for being late on the updates. Yay! I'm going for a bi-weekly updating schedule, so if I miss it DO NOT BE AFRAID TO SPAM ME! Please guys, I do need the reminding. Next chapter will be up Monday, New Zealand time. That's Sunday for you Westerners. Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 4**

By the end of the week, a bad cough had set in. England was sprawled out on the couch, one hand draped over his forehead. Breathing was difficult, each wet and raspy. France was busy, out shopping for groceries. The man insisted on doing everything for him. Funny, he was overworking himself trying to help England recover from 'overwork'. He let out a small laugh at the thought before nearly falling off the couch in a coughing fit. England groaned and went to get up. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. Better to recover before France got back and began fussing even more. He was halfway to the kitchen when the front door swung open and a familiar accented voice floated through.

"Angleterre~ I'm back~"

"Bollocks," England muttered, only for his chest to heave and for him to fall to his knees as his lungs cleared themselves out in the most painful way. He heard bags hit the floor and suddenly France was helping him back to the couch.

"I'm fine, wanker." He protested weakly, voice raspy.

"Non non, mon cher, you are not." France insisted, forcing him to sit. England grumbled the rest of his protests but otherwise complied. He gave a weaker cough, and France announced that he would get England a glass of water after putting away the groceries.

After several weeks of living at England's house, France knew his way around the kitchen. It took him no time at all to pack away the groceries. He was just filling up a glass of water when he heard a muffled thump from the living room.

"Angleterre?" He called, turning off the faucet. No response. France began to worry. Glass in hand, he peeked into the living room. The glass shattered on the floor.

England was sprawled on the floor, unmoving and some way from the couch he was supposed to be resting on.

"Merde!" France cried, rushing to his side. With haste, he rolled England over and took in how pale and gaunt his face looked. His eyes dipped to England's chest as he leaned over and held his ear beside the unconscious man's mouth. France held his breath.

.

.

.

Hot breath brushed against his ear. England's chest rose and fell slowly. Too slowly. As if he were struggling to stay alive.

But he was.

Without wasting any time, France gathered England up in his arms, bridal style, and marvelled at how light he was. He was far below a healthy weight. Shooting the shattered glass and spilt water a disdainful look, he resolved to clean that up later and proceeded to take England upstairs to his room. He nudged the door open with his foot and lay England on the bed. Looking down at his sleeping form, France smiled fondly and couldn't resist planting a light feather kiss on his loves forehead.

Straightening, France's gaze drifted around the room. He was never allowed in here and gave a small chuckle upon imagining how England would react if he found out that he had come in. The bookshelf beside the bed drew his eye. It appeared to contain a majority of British novels, with prominent titles such as Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter. Unsurprising.

He was about to leave England to his rest when an old book on the dresser caught his attention. The pages were yellowing, the cover tattered. It lay open, a faded red ribbon tucked close to the spine. Curiosity overtook him. With gentle fingers - it was old, after all - he picked it up and scanned the page. What he saw made him gasp and drop the book, making a loud _thump_ that made England turn on his side, grumbling something about frogs.

On the page, damning words stared up at France, mocking him, embedding themselves in his memory.

 _Fair warning to all magic users: To cast this spell means to drain all life from the caster._


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

When England awoke, he was lying in his bed, the door wide open. Immediate instinct made him panic, and as a result, he nearly fell out of bed. He quickly took stock of the room, ensuring that nothing had been moved. He sighed in relief. Either he had forgotten to close his door earlier, or the frog thankfully hadn't released some chaos demon by snooping around.

Thank goodness for that.

England threw off the covers and stood with shaky legs, before walking downstairs. He was met with the sight of France in a side lean on the couch, one hand propping open a book while the other rested on the armrest. He had donned reading glasses, and while England stood in the doorway he couldn't help but admire how France looked. He shook the thought from his mind and cleared his throat to let the other man know he was there. The Frenchman looked up. Blue met green.

France stood abruptly and the book lay forgotten.

"Angleterre! Mon ami, thank goodness you are alright!"

"What the bloody hell are you-GAH!" England stumbled back under France's weight. He gripped the doorframe to quell his shaking legs. "Get off me, you bloody frog." He ground out. France did no such thing but steadied himself to ease the weight off of England. He buried his face in the shorter man's shoulder, his body shaking. A quiet sob sounded. England stilled.

"Are you...Blimey, Francis, are you crying?"

France stilled also. He slowly pulled away, shielding his eyes from England's gaze.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Arthur." He said softly, turning his head. What was with the sudden change in behaviour? France almost never called England 'Arthur', always preferring his nicknames. England followed his gaze to the window, taking his mind off the way they both stood awkwardly apart. The sky was clear, a brilliant azure blanket stretching out over the world.

"It's a nice day out." England murmured appreciatively. France thought for a moment, then seemed to brighten. He instinctively took a step back to brace himself for whatever perverted idea the crazy Frenchman had.

"Angleterre, will you take a walk with moi?" He asked, finally meeting his gaze. France's bright blue eyes were wide, reminding England of a puppy begging for attention. For a moment he was taken aback by his, for lack of a better word, beauty. How could he possibly say no?

"I...don't see why not," England replied quietly. France smiled - almost fondly, it seemed to England - and went to fetch their coats.

Briefly, England regretted the choice, but all his doubts fled his mind as France helped him don his coat. Perhaps the fresh air would be good for him. Yes, that was it.

The pair walked in silence. England listened to the chirping of birds, the buzz of cicadas, and the roar of cars - suburban sounds that he associated with his neighbourhood - albeit distantly compared to the presence beside him.

"Look, Angleterre, they have a rose garden, like yours." France pointed across the road, where a couple seemed to be enjoying the day in their flower garden. They looked to be laughing at something one said.

"Lovely."

England hadn't meant for it to come out short, but it did. He could feel France looking at him sidelong.

"I think you could get some tips from them." England snapped his head around to look at him.

"What's that supposed to mean!?"

"It means that their garden is much prettier than yours." France grinned, glad he was riling him up. Just like old times. England spluttered in outrage.

"Lies! My garden is much better than theirs and you know it!" He cried, which made the said couple look up at them. France then chose that exact moment to make himself scarce, hoping to leave England to deal with the mess.

"Oh no you don't!" He yelled, proceeding to take chase. "Get back here you bloody wanker!"

By the time they were all worn out they had moved into a more urban neighbourhood. Big Ben loomed above, hands pointing towards noon. Abnormally large eyebrows shot up at that.

"Blimey, is that really the time?" Still breathing heavily, France followed his gaze.

"I suppose we could find somewhere to eat." He suggested with a wink. England shoved him and glanced around, eyes falling on a vendor further down the street. Wordlessly he grabbed France's hand and lead him towards the ice-cream stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw France smile thankfully, though at what he couldn't place.

"Two strawberry icecreams, if you please," England ordered and said ice creams were quickly received, along with a knowing wink from the vendor. They walked off in confused silence. As Big Ben chimed noon, they had made their way to the river, ice creams near gone. England's feet were sore from walking, but he kept going. Just the smile France kept giving him as they bantered was enough to fuel him. Though despite this, he was still wary about the stair before him. He started at it, wishing his weakness would just go away, but he knows all too well that that would not be possible.

He jumped when he felt long fingers on his arm.

"Would you like help, old man?" He looked up at the teasing France, cocky smile and all.

"Who're you calling old man?" He protested, though made no move to pull away. France laughed.

"You, mon cher. Now would you like some help up the stairs or not?"

Bollocks. The frog had noticed. England's mouth went dry.

"I-um-oh, alright." He conceded, but it was worth it to see the dazzling smile that France gave him for it.

So France supported England as they walked up the broad stairs. It was a relatively small gesture, but England prayed to any deity listening that France couldn't hear his pounding heart. They reached the top of the stairs and the pair gazed out over the river's waters.

The world seemed to halt just for them.

England leaned against the railing, finishing his ice cream. When he was done, France leaned over and plucked the wrapper out of his hand, tossing both of theirs into a nearby bin. He then leaned back against the railing, and England could feel blue eyes regarding him curiously.

And they stayed like that, France watching passersby and occasionally glancing at England, who stubbornly stared ahead at the river. Finally, France put his arms above his head and stretched, leaning dangerously over the railing. It was at this that England risked a glance.

"Be careful." He warned. Blue eyes flicked to green.

"Whatever for?" France asked innocently. England scowled.

"You'll fall in, at the rate you're going." He retorted, turning away again. "Unless you want to go swimming."

"Are you worried about me?" France chuckled. He tensed.

"No, well, I-uh, yes. I am worried." England admitted. He refused to meet France's gaze. "But only because I'll be the one who has to fish you out!" He added hurriedly. Perhaps he could save some dignity.

For a brief while, neither of them spoke. It seemed like silence was becoming the norm.

"Hypothetically." France began slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. " _Hypothetically,_ if I were to fall in," England glanced at him sidelong, but the frog was once again watching passersby, "would you jump in and save me?"

"Yes." He said it too quickly. Bollocks.

"And if you were to die in the process?" England whirled around.

"What!?"

"If you ended up drowning trying to pull me out of the river, would you still do it?" England searched France's face for any kind of tell that he was joking, but for once the Frenchman was serious.

"Don't be ridiculous. I can swim." France studied England. This whole situation felt weird. France? Serious? This had to be a dream.

"Very well, let me rephrase that." France's voice was quiet, but not in the least bit soft. "If I were in a situation in which my life was on the line," _Oh god, did he know?_ "And in order to save me you had to give your own life," _Impossible, he couldn't know, could he?_ "Would you?"

Silence hung between them.

"Obviously not." England croaked. A blatant lie. France laughed suddenly, his usual demeanour returning. He laughed nervously alongside him.

"Ah, of course, what an absurd question." It seemed like France had gotten the answer he was looking for.

And as the pair returned to the house, he had a small, maybe sad smile on his lips.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

England had retired hours before. His bed lay beneath him, the ceiling looming ominously above, yet the tides of sleep never came. Instead, he stared upwards, remembering, worrying. A particular thought loomed above the rest. A certain Frenchmans smile, one that hinted that he knew more than he let on. But he couldn't know. England was certain that he had done everything in his power to prevent France from finding out, and he had made sure to keep him out of his room.

Unless…

No. No. Surely if France had seen the spell he would have said something. Surely…

He rolled over, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache building there. Why did that frog have to save her? That damn building was mere seconds away from caving. He knew France could see that. And yet the grief and sorrow and rage that England had felt when that building collapsed on them as overwhelming/ It tore him up inside. He wouldn't eat or sleep or work, just laying in bed all day, doing nothing but grieve.

And then he had the spark of an idea, an epiphany. So he read until his eyes bled.

France asked if England would trade his own life to save him. And the answer...the answer was yes. England would die for France.

Which was exactly what he was doing.

He was lying.

He had to be.

France ran a hand down his face and he paced his room. He had been pondering the events of that day for over an hour now.

No way that answer was the real one. Because when England said that he wouldn't trade his life for his...it was a lie. That spellbook said enough. The questioning thoughts of whatever England did to bring him back to life, it kept him up at when France could feel himself getting stronger with each passing day - while it was evident that England was slowly wasting away, bit by bit. It was awful.

And he hated it.

Hated that he couldn't do anything.

He wished he were still dead so that England would be okay, so that he would still be healthy. But if he had cared enough to bring France back to life, sacrificing himself in the process...he couldn't begin to imagine the grief that England had felt during those three years it took to dig himself up.

There was nothing he could do.

And he hated it.

No less than three days later, and the morning started off peaceful. At least until the door flew open and a loud obnoxious voice filled the house.

"Yo, Iggy! I heard you weren't feeling well so I gots cake!"

Of course he did.

From his place bundled in blankets on the couch, England shot France an amused look, the latter of whom only shrugged and went to greet America. Resettling on the couch, he listened to the argument forming at the front door.

"Dude! I wanna see Iggy!"

"Pardon, Alfred, but Arthur is unwell. I'm not sure he would be up to a visit."

"Boooooo. Since when did you become his nanny? Are you trying to keep him to yourself or something?"

"Maybe."

Some scuffling was heard and England was sure that America had tried to force his way through.

"Come _on,_ Francis. Let me through!"

"Non."

"But I brought cake! You can't say no to cake, can you?"

"Oui, I can. Non." France replied stubbornly. England sighed.

"Let him through, git." He said, voice now weak and raspy. Some comfort other than the frog would be nice. America shouted in triumph, and as the pair entered the living room he struggled to get upright. France helped him, holding England almost lovingly as he adjusted his blankets. America set the box down on the coffee table as France did so, grinning to himself. He so shipped it.

"I brought lemon cake." _My favourite_ , he thought. "I'll never get how you stomach that stuff, but hey, my tastes are better than yours." America chuckled as he took a seat opposite the pair. England scowled at the joke. France went to the kitchen for cutlery while England watched him leave the room.

"Are you okay?" His gaze slid back to America. He was watching England worryingly.

"Never felt better." He replied stubbornly. france entered the room, arms laden with plates and forks. The air was heavy with silence as France divided the cake, and only grew as they ate. America kept stealing glances at him, glances that he ignored. When the plates were clear, the leftover cake was sealed away in the pantry, England felt much better. He'd have to thank America if his pride didn't get in the way. He cleared his throat.

"So America, what brings you here?" He asked, curious. America almost never visited, said it reminded him too much of the 'old days' before his independence. Which happened to just be his way of jabbing at England. The real reason was still a mystery.

"I heard through the grapevine that you weren't well!" America explained, leaning back and crossing his legs like the gentleman he was raised as.

"The...grapevine?" France inquired, confused, taking the words right out of England's mouth. Damn these modern terms and their garbled meanings!

"The grapevine!" America repeated, as if that clarified everything. I heard it from Canada, who heard it from Prussia, who heard it from Germany, who heard it from Italy, who heard it from Denmark - you know how those two like to chat - who heard it from Norway, who said he noticed that you were a little pale at the last world meeting," he explained. France sat upright, eyes wide as if he just had an epiphany. England paid him no mind.

Well, from the way the news had travelled among the other nations, he didn't doubt that nearly everyone knew his state of well being. And now that America had seen for himself, well, it was just going to spread faster now, wouldn't it?

As France and America continued to chat again, England nestled himself deeper into the blankets and sighed deeply, drifting off to sleep.

As soon as he saw that England had fallen asleep, France had dragged America into another room to avoid waking him up. America had seen the distressed look on France's face and was immediately worried. He ran a hand down his face, groaning inwardly, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Dude, what is it?" America interrupted. France scowled. A rare scowl. America shut his mouth.

"I was just about to say." he remained. And he explained everything. From waking up in that grave, to clawing his way out for three years, to finding England soon after freedom. He told America about England's deteriorating health, the spell he found - he even found the book as proof before putting it back in its rightful place - and the way France looked and felt better every time England looked, and likely felt, worse. America was white as a sheet by the time he finished.

"I don't know what to do," France admitted. "But I need you to keep this to yourself. D'accord?" (Okay?)

America hesitated, but nodded. He stood to leave and France showed him to the door.

"Oh, and one more thing." America looked back at him. "Do tell Norway. I believe he could help." France said, and named a time and place for all three to meet. America nodded again and took his leave, shock still etched onto his face.

France lingered for a moment more, watching the other nation disappear around the corner. He sighed deeply to himself and walked slowly back inside to the sleeping England. Ever so carefully, he shifted England so that there was room for himself. He rested his head on England's shoulder and inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent. He knew that he should take him up to his bed, but with each passing day England was growing weaker and weaker. It was now too much effort for him to walk up and down the stairs every day. England practically lived on the couch nowadays. Perhaps taking that walk was a bad idea. It seems to have taken a lot out of the smaller nation.

France breathed him in again, and the last thing he knew before he succumbed to unconsciousness was the lingering scent of England.

The scent of earl grey and roses.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Morning light fluttered through the curtains as France awoke. He was stiff from sleeping all night beside England. He stood and made his way to the kitchen to make breakfast - toast and England's favourite tea.

Back in the living room, England still hadn't woken up, so France gently nudged him. It didn't work; the other nation was still deep in the folds of slumber. Waking England was becoming a more difficult task with each day. With that pale, gaunt face he was hardly the same man. Sorrow in his eyes, France nudged him again and England roused slowly.

Painfully slow.

As he opened his eyes, France could see that the emerald orbs were no longer as bright, no longer as lively.

"What are you looking at, wanker?" He was jostled from his thoughts by that voice.

"Nothing, mon cher." He replied hastily, handing him his breakfast.

But as he turned away he smiled; at least the attitude remained the same.

The morning progressed at a snail's pace. Both England and the large grandfather clock in the hall were constantly checked on, the former of which grew increasingly annoyed with the Frenchman. His patience wore out around noon. France was kicked out of the house with a lopsided grin, much to England's chagrin.

"-and don't come back until you learn some manners, you bloody frog!" He called from the couch weakly, yet his tone no less threatening. Not the excuse France was planning on, but it worked.

The graveyard was peaceful at this time of day. France could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Birds were singing, the leaves in the trees rustled in the breeze, and the grass crunched beneath his feet. Further down the hill, he could see a crowd of black, huddled in mourning silence. He stared down at them, then at the headstone at his feet. It seemed that even after all these months it had stayed. Of course, removing it after crawling out of the dirt might raise suspicion.

He had a foggy memory of his death. He recalled heat, unbearable heat. He recalled screaming, voices yelling, begging, praying. He recalled England, shouting over all the rest.

The birds continued to sing.

"Hey, France." He turned, spotting America climbing the hill, Norway in tow. Gone was the usual cheerful demeanour of the American. Now he was solemn, serious. A rare sight. It made for a nice change, but with the circumstances it was unnerving.

Norway was himself, mysterious and monotone. Though something about him seemed different. Changed. Like even he wasn't sure what to make of the situation. Like he was scared. There was a question in his eyes.

"What do you remember?" Norway asked, voicing his thoughts and getting straight to the point. As sudden as the question was, it was not unexpected.

"That's a bit confronting, don't you think?" America asked, concerned. The younger nation was fidgeting, and France remembered that he was uncomfortable around mentions of magic, particularly ghosts (It's not supposed to be possible, okay!?). Being in a graveyard probably didn't help.

"You don't have to be here, mon ami," France said softly. America winced, before quickly recovering and meeting his eyes.

"I'm fine, dude." He replied stubbornly. "I'm as worried about England as you are. If there's any possible way of saving him, I wanna hear it."

France didn't doubt it.

With a deep breath, he recounted his story.

"The last thing I remember was lots of heat, smoke in my lungs, and the weight of the building on top of me. But what I remember most was England's screaming. I knew what was going to happen, and it tore me up inside to... to leave him behind. When I awoke, I was six feet under, and this... I don't know how else to describe it... this green light was surrounding me; I could hardly see past it. It must have been the spell England cast on me to... bring me back. It faded after what felt like weeks, which I suppose it must have been. Once it was gone I began to dig."

"It was, well, difficult. I had to break through the coffin, and then claw my way up through the dirt for literal years. I was thankful we nations are so resilient. We can last nearly forever without sustenance, we can't suffocate, we can't die of age or sickness... the only things that can kill us are a direct blow from another nation, or incredible force... like that building. But even so, with all our strengths... I couldn't believe I had made it out."

Norway nodded, processing. Understanding the story.

Then he asked for the story behind France ending up at Englands.

France told him.

From scaring the groundskeeper half to death, to Scotland finding him, to his trip to England. He told Norway about the walk to the riverside and the spellbook. He told him about England's behaviour and current health. When he was done Norway said nothing, thinking. America was the very picture of concern, biting his nails and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was going to develop a bad habit if he kept that up.

"This is bad," Norway said eventually. France only nodded his agreement.

"Why?" America asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

"The spell, it is... killing England. Draining his life force and transferring it to France." At that France subconsciously placed a hand over his heart, terror in his eyes. "There's a price to all magic; the bigger the spell, the more that needs to be paid. And this is the price of raising the dead."

"But why?" America repeated. "Why would he do it? England hates France! You can't ignore centuries of conflict!"

"Does he?" Norway replied softly. " _Does_ he hate him?" Silence fell, and two pairs of eyes drifted to the man in question, far across the English Channel, while the last stared at his feet.

"Is there... is there anything we can do?" France asked quietly, though he knew the answer already. Feared it. He stared at the grass at his feet, grown since he had broken through. He could still feel the first rush of air on his face, down his throat, where before there was only dirt and mud, the fresh air watering his bloodshot eyes as he cried his relief, gasping for breath after so long with none; a God-ordained miracle it had seemed at the time. He raised his eyes. Norway shook his head.

"No. This spell... it cannot be reversed. And England... he _will_ die." America forced a chuckle out of a wince.

"You'd think that nations can't die." He said, though his heart wasn't in the statement. It was far below, deep in the pits of fear and grief. Of sorrow.

"The death of a nation means the fall of the country, the state, the land." Norway reminded, as if the other two didn't already know. "Don't you ever wonder why France was so out of order for the three years he was gone, until he crawled out of the soil? His land thought him dead, and so it wrought chaos. The land became infertile, the amount of accidents and deaths tolls increased, the economy crashed, civil war tore across the streets. It became a war zone, essentially, and marked the fall of the nation. England will die... No, England will _fall_ , and there is nothing we can do about it." Guilt tore at his voice. He didn't want to say it, but there truly was no other option.

Silence fell once again as Norway finished, and France looked again at his headstone with a heavy heart.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The most was made of the time France had left with England.

The house was filled with roses, the season already in bloom. They filled vases all over the house, the red, whites and yellows seen from every corner. Every day France made him a cup of his favourite earl grey tea, and soon his home was enveloped in the smell of England. Every night France cooked a magnificent dinner, a mixture of cuisines from all over the world. A kind of cloaked farewell from the other nations.

Over the next month, the house was bombarded with visits from the other nations, all of whom had heard about England's health from America and Norway (France had allowed them to tell). Half of them had nearly burst into tears upon seeing England, and some, Ukraine and Italy included, actually had. France was uncertain if England knew why these visits were happening so suddenly and out of the blue, but he did know that he was pleased to say his goodbyes (he was), if in a cryptic way to avoid the others from knowing (they did).

They all knew that one of the worlds greatest empires, one of the oldest countries, was about to fall.

By now England knew that France was aware of the reality that was England's fate. He was unsure of how, but he was grateful for the company these past few months. Even if France was just as pervy as always.

So very grateful for France just being France.

He knew he was nearing the end of his life, but he wished there had been more between them.

He wished he had more time. He wished he had confessed before all of this, before France's fiery death. He wished they could both live, happy with each other. But it was not possible, however badly he wished it.

So he enjoys the company while it lasts: the meals, the visits, the tea and the roses. He knows deep in his heart that France will look after his roses after his passing, look after his house, his people best he can. He knows with every fibre of his being that France would do anything for England, and he knew that he himself would do the same.

But he didn't stop wishing.

Not even when fever gripped him with a firey vengeance within the month.


	10. Chapter 9

**Last chapter, woo! Sorry for not uploading sooner, brain was stupid and I completely forgot on several occasions. But hey, it's here! Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 9**

The fever wrought its wrath upon England, unrelenting, merciless, draining away England's fight until there was nothing, forcing the man into unconsciousness. With the oblivion came the muttering, the nightmares, the recounting of old memories. He was very rarely awake.

France began to pace, back and forth in front of the hearth. Chewing his lip became habit. He stopped accepting visitors, concerned as he was for England's health. They were alone once more. The house became far too empty, too quiet, too big; footsteps echoed in the hall, no words were uttered and the silence hung heavy on France's shoulders, like a blanket he just couldn't shake off, a blanket that he didn't wish to remove.

And he knew how much time was left.

His anxiety grew with each hour, each day he spent tending to the fever, trying and failing to lower his temperature. His mind was focused on the future and as much as he wanted to think about other things, all he could imagine was the land growing dry, crops failing, people starving, The economy will fail, the banks will fail, politics will fail. Citizens will grow paranoid and panic will spread like wildfire across the nation. Terrorist will strike, populations will fall, babies will be stillborn.

This is the fate of a dead nation.

This is the fate of England.

Four days France laboured over England, his love, his life, doing what he could to keep him alive. With a damp cloth, he dabbed at the other man's forehead, trying to lower his temperature. It wasn't working. Tears welled in France's eyes. England's breaths were laboured, his face a sickly pale, and his body was all skin and bones.

He drew the cloth away with trembling hands and sat on a stool beside England. He had set up a cot for England in the living room so that he wasn't constantly overheating, as one so often does. In his place, France had taken up residence on the couch so that he could keep an eye on his love, and be at his side whenever needed. In the cot, England slept fitfully, muttering and wincing every few minutes. France bowed his head, sighing heavily through his nose.

"Mon cher, ever since our pirate days, I-" He gulped, "I grew to love your wild green eyes. So filled with fight that I could never stay away. And now... now you have been taken from me..." His fists clenched. Anger rose in his throat.

"Why!?" He yelled suddenly, knocking over the stool in his haste to stand. "Why bring me back!? None of this would have happened if you had just let me stay dead!" He felt warmth on his cheeks, and he discovers that tears were falling down his face, thick and fast. He couldn't bring himself to care, not even as he collapsed at the side of the bed. Not even as he sobbed into the sheets.

He didn't see England open his eyes, only felt clammy hands grip his own.

His head snapped up and he gazed into emerald eyes, so tired, so worn. A mockery of his former glory.

"Because I love you, frog." He rasped, weak as a newborn lamb. France's eyes widened and the tears began anew.

"I love you, too." He whispered back, afraid that if he looked away from those captivating green eyes, he would be gone.

"I know," England replied, weaker than before. France leaned over, not at all hesitant, and captured England's lips with his own, unintentionally closing his eyes. _Finally._

But it was too late to let this love flourish.

Because when he drew away and reopened his eyes, those magnificent emeralds had become glassy stone.

A heavy silence fell upon the country.

England had fallen.

France began to grieve.

And all that remained was the lingering scent of earl grey and roses.


End file.
